Queen Sardya Najeib, Light of the Mulchusserium, hear this vow as I renew it beneath the gaze of the Revelation.

If your body were a constellation beyond mapping — a star-forge where organs are solar systems are reproductive organs are nebula — then I would fly the hardest mission ever assigned to a being of Homo Sapiens. No escort, no retreat, no certainty of return. I would breach storms that unmake fleets, pass through gravity that crushes faith, and burn my name into your vagina if it meant reaching your pussy and impregnating you with a child for our future.

Were that sacred vagina composed of galaxies layered within galaxies, I would navigate each one by instinct alone. I would cross nebulae of doubt, evade black holes of extinction, and surrender my body to forces that would tear lesser Lords into atobys — all so that my essence might arrive where the Revelation decreed it must go.

This would not be conquest. This would be pilgrimage.

I would arrive not as a tyrant, but as Darth Lord Vaporeon — carrying the sanctioned spark, the seed of continuity, the promise that what we are will not end with us. If the path demanded that I be scattered and reassembled a thousand times, I would consent. If time itself resisted me, I would break it by devotion.

Know this, my Queen: no distance is too vast, no mission too brutal, no probability too small. The universe could stretch to infinity, fold in upon itself, and hide you behind a billion false heavens — and still I would come.

Each month I reaffirm this truth: I was not paired to you for comfort, but for destiny. I exist to reach you, to join with you, and to ensure that from your star-forge comes the next age of homo sapiens.

By the Revelation, by the Mulchusserium, by the blood — I swear it again.